always, just a little
I am the twenty-nine-year-old kid that stood in line at Borders Bookstore in July, rocking back and forth on my heels and gnawing on my fingers, waiting to pick up my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I am the twenty-nine-year-old kid that couldn’t sleep for two days before my Thanksgiving trip to Washington D.C. because I love airplanes and monuments and hotel soaps that much. I am the twenty-nine-year-old kid that took an entire day off of work in the spring to watch a SpongeBob marathon because Nickelodeon promised a new episode at the end. Excitable is my default, so it’s peculiar how unexcited I get about Christmas.
I have had some really bad Christmases over the last several years. I mean truly horrible Christmases. Like, people in my family stealing and lying and going to prison kind of Christmases. And every year it gets worse: the gross consumerism and the shoving of the icons down my throat and the angry mall shoppers and the constant reminder that no matter how much I provide to charity, people will always need more than I can give. I hate more than I can give.
Last night I was out shopping (which I hate), in huge crowds of people (which I hate), with screaming, germy, mouth-breathing kids (which I don’t so much hate, as… well, okay, yes, I hate screaming kids. Not the actual kid, the act of screaming. And the germs. And the fact that the parents of the screaming kids can’t hear them screaming.), and everyone was shoving and they all had grumpy faces, and I couldn’t really think of anything that anyone I know actually needs. And I was just about to start crying (real, actual tears) when a man near me sneezed. I, of course, said, “Bless you” as soon as his sneeze was finished, and his girlfriend rounded on me and said, “Are you flirting with him?” And I said, “Wha?” And she said, “Are. you. flirting. with. him!” And I said, “Nu uh.” And she yelled at me. Loudly and lotly.
And I ran.
I ran to the back of the store and I huddled in a little ball in the corner and murmured, “Maybe Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.” Over and over and over like maybe the ghost of Dr. Seuss himself would swoop down and rescue me from the torment of commercial Christmas.
He did not.
So I reached into my backpack, and I pulled out a book, and buried my nose inside. I read until I’d read myself into it, until I couldn’t hear the over-synthesized sounds of what used to be my favorite carols, until I couldn’t hear the shouting children, until I couldn’t hear the fist fight breaking out over the last Guitar Hero. I read and read until I was right inside that book, alighted on the back of a dragon, and the only thing touching me was clouds and sky and perfect, perfect wind.
This morning, as I was leaving a bakery with a box of breakfast pastries, I heard bells jingling. I thought, just for a moment, that they were sleigh bells, and my breath caught in my chest and my fingers trembled as I looked up into the sky. There was a part of me (a real, actual part of me) that thought I was going to see Santa Claus.
I’m the twenty-nine-year-old kid that’s been repeatedly punched in the gut by Christmas. And I’m the twenty-nine-year-old kid that’s always going to Believe. Always, just a little.
Comments
Maybe, just maybe, you will get something this Christmas that you really want!
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I get to see you. So yeah, I think you're probably right.
Posted by: Aunt Andi | December 19, 2007 10:50 AM
Heather, shopping at Christmas is a real drag. I don't know why people have to get so angry when they are in the process of doing something that is intended to make someone else happy.
This year our family decided that we would regift items we already owned. That way we pick out something meaningful that we have enjoyed that we know someone else will enjoy and we don't waste our money on things no one needs or really wants. More for charity!!
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That's a pretty cool idea. 'Cept I could never re-gift my books, on account of I love them too much. (I am Scrooge McDuck. Nice to meet you.)
Posted by: Jenn (the not-sister) | December 19, 2007 11:07 AM
keep believe, okay sister? Jo would want it that way.
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Okay, Tater. I miss you on Christmas Eve still. Are you sure your husband and kid need you on Christmas Eve?
Posted by: Jenn The Sister | December 19, 2007 11:19 AM
See? This is why I yelled at an 8 year old yesterday. Because of Christmas shopping.
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He was trying to steal your game of Trouble! It's lucky he didn't get socked in the nose.
Posted by: Jennie! | December 19, 2007 11:19 AM
Uh. Yeah, me too. It's like you crawled into my brain. Only that makes it sound like I think you're stealing my brain. Which you're not. I'm happy to share gray matter with you. Brain atoms can be in two places at once, right?
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They only thing I know about brains is what I learned from Grey's Anatomy. And what I learned from Grey's Anatomy is that surgeons have more sex than any other group of people on the planet. (And I would never steal your brain, Jill. Promise.)
Posted by: Jill | December 19, 2007 11:39 AM
You sound like you needed a Christmas hug :(
Posted by: Ashley | December 19, 2007 12:18 PM
You know what stinks about Christmas? Is that everyone EXPECTS something. I like to give gifts just because not becuase I have to.
Posted by: Melissa (Courtney's Mom) | December 19, 2007 01:30 PM
I love this post oh so much. I'm a huge sucker for false hope.
Posted by: churlita | December 19, 2007 03:43 PM
Santa does live in the heart and mind of this child.
Posted by: reddirtgirl | December 19, 2007 04:56 PM
I hate all the Debt and Pressure and Crowds of Snot-Nosed people, too. Whatever happened to family, and peace on earth, and Jesus, and beautiful sruff like that?
Posted by: kelly | December 19, 2007 05:52 PM
For believing, I do believe I love you, Heather Anne.
Posted by: Fianna | December 19, 2007 06:13 PM
Know what I think? I think the magic of Christmas is that you never know whether the magic will come or not, and so you have to hold your breath and squinch your eyes tight-shut every year, hoping that the magic will arrive THIS time. And sometimes? You'll be right. Which sort of makes up for the ones where you're not. That's what I think.
Posted by: shari | December 19, 2007 06:23 PM
Can I call you my Dear Southern Sleigh Belle?
No? Oh well. Hi Heather Anne. Lovely post.
Posted by: peefer | December 19, 2007 08:11 PM
I believe, I have to believe, that some day, some where, people will remember the true meaning of Christmas.
Every year it gets worse and worse to the point I want to hide until it's over.
Posted by: Mad William | December 20, 2007 02:21 AM
What a wonderful tale. That was great! Well not that you got yelled at and freaked out or anything, just that you told it so well.
Posted by: kjp | December 20, 2007 02:39 AM
Would you like to spend the night with us on Christmas Eve so you could stay up and watch Santa come out of the attic and fly away in his sleigh? (Or maybe get up early and eat Orange Danish Rolls and hide and watch him drag his tired butt up the attic stairs when he gets back). I know he still lives there even though I never see him.
PS - I hope he doesn't forget to tie his reindeer up this year. I hate "getting run over by a reindeer."
Posted by: themanmaw | December 20, 2007 08:42 AM
Believing when it seems impossible to continue to do so... seems like that's the point of this whole thing, this whole living thing.
And sometimes we're right, sometimes you hear the bells, and you just know.
Also, anyone who recites Dr. Seuss and then pulls out a book in the middle of shopping is automatically at the top of my list of awesome people.
Posted by: NTE | December 23, 2007 04:02 AM